Hello again everyone, and welcome to another Crap Poem!
This is another poem created for the Disability Arts Online platform, but as It’s been posted there already I thought I’d share it with you too.
The poem is centered around the relationship between artist and artwork, and how mental illness can connect the two.
In fact, this is how I’ve been feeling for some time. Whenever I try to start drawing I’m reminded of how unsuccessful I’ve been so far. Suddenly everything I create looks a mess, or wounded.
Anyway, some of my poems have been well received recently, so I hope you enjoy this one too.
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Wounded art
I wound my work
with blood red paint
to watch it bleed and suffer.
I hate my art,
it’s wasted time.
Each piece comes from the gutter.
It weeps with me,
my wounded art.
We bear each others pain.
I can’t create
a piece with heart
and each day is the same.
Artists win
awards online.
I know I’ll never get there.
I try and try
to grow and win.
I fail and end up nowhere.
“My work is free.
Give me a shot.
Here’s a fix of what I’ve got.”
“We don’t do free.
We’re not for you.
We’ll file your samples in the loo.”
We’re drowning now,
ideas and drafts
will never be completed.
The industry
Is drowning too.
Our talent is repeated.
Can I be
the unicorn
that people want to use?
Anticipation
for my work.
A canvas that’s unbruised?
A stare-off starts,
Canvas and I,
Who will win this time?
My brain melts fast.
My thoughts dry up.
And quitting sounds sublime.
But on I paint
and scribe and scrawl.
My product pile get’s taller.
With every stroke
futility
and confidence gets smaller.
Can I win too?
Can I be great?
Or am I destined useless?
My broken art
resembles me.
A view of blood and bruises.
So I’m the one
who feels the pain
of my canvas blush.
Creative block
is where I’ll stay.
Self harming with my brush
**********
Thanks for reading 💜
Creative Steph 